


Five Times Spot Used Brooklyn Newsies as Go-Betweens and One Time He Visited Racetrack Himself

by Mad_Hatter_Usagi



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: First newsies fic, Five Times Plus One, I don't really know what this is, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Hatter_Usagi/pseuds/Mad_Hatter_Usagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My URL is loser-angel.tumblr.com</p></blockquote>





	Five Times Spot Used Brooklyn Newsies as Go-Betweens and One Time He Visited Racetrack Himself

**One**

Race was sitting on the front steps of the Manhattan boarding house beating Specs, Romeo, and Mush at cards, without letting them know just _how bad_ he was beating them. His poker face was perfect; after all, he used to live in Brooklyn. Racetrack had moved across the bridge to look for a bit of peace compared to the rough Brooklyn politics. Soon after he'd moved, Spot Conlon had gained leadership over the newsies back in Brooklyn; Spot had allowed the gambler to sell his papes at the track, even though it was Brooklyn territory.

Jack, who was leaning against the brick building, was the first to see the scruffy group of three kids approach. They were probably eleven, but they looked younger because they were practically swimming in their hand-me-down clothes. Jack stepped forward nonchalantly, taking note of their dirty faces and dark eyes.

"What can I do for you boys?" Jack asked, his hands in his pockets.

"There a Higgins here?" One of the boys, the one with the misfortune to be speckled head-to-toe with dark freckles, asked as he tugged on his hat nervously.

"I don't know of a Higgins," Jack answered before turning around to the other boys on the steps. "You guys know a Higgins?"

Racetrack's face screwed up in annoyance before he nodded and stubbed out his cigar on the step beside him, pocketing the rest. "It's me."

"Your name's Higgins?" Romeo raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Last name," Race said distractedly before focusing his attention on the smaller kids. "What do you runts want?"

"Spot says-" Another boy, one with a nose that could be more easily found in a pig sty than on a boy's face, began.

"He can't come on his own if he's got something to say to me? That asshole." Race muttered, rolling his eyes. The other Manhattan boys were gazing wide-eyed at him, completely surprised by how at ease he was by the mention of the rock-hard leader of the toughest group of newsies.

"A-anyhow," The third boy, who had his blond hair tucked up under his cap with only a few locks escaping over his brow, restarted. "Spot says that he wants you to take the night off tomorrow and come 'round."

After a moments deliberation, Racetrack announced, "Tell him I'll meet him at Coney, but I'm only staying if he's paying for shit."

The three little boys scampered back in the direction they came in, and the remaining newsies continued gaping at the gambler.

Jack recovered first and said, "So, you're friends with Spot Conlon." It was a statement, but it was said more like a question.

"Practically grew up with him."

* * *

**Two**

Racetrack stood a hundred feet away from the betting windows at the track. He only had five more papes to sell before he could call it a day, but that would be easy. The races started soon, and everyone knew that Race was the best person to ask for a win. So the gambler stood on a soap box, two hands holding papes and waving them in the air.

"A tip for a pape! Get it here, folks! A pape for a win on the tracks! Get your money back in the races!" He yelled, his voice a bit hoarse with a cold.

Thankfully, several men stop for a paper, and each one gets a horse's number whispered in their ear. When he's finished, he places a small bet on his chosen horse and hides near the stables to wait for the beautiful palomino to win. He kicked at the dirt outside the stables and lit a cigar.

A newsie with a white scar crossing through his left eyebrow and up his forehead approached a few minute later, carrying a small sack in one of his hands. The boy, who was in his mid-teens, stopped in front of Race and looked him up and down as he assessed him.

"You Higgins?" The other newsie asked gruffly.

"Yeah, what's it to ya?" Racetrack answered.

"Here, Spot says to take tomorrow off so your cold don't get worse," he said, presenting him with the small pouch with coins inside.

For a moment, Race considered turning the money down, but he had to admit that it would help. Plus, Spot got a small amount of dues from each of the Brooklyn newsies every week, he could definitely afford to give out a days coin. So Race accepted the pouch and pocketed it quickly.

"Hey, will you tell Spot something for me?"

"Sure," The scarred boy said.

"Tell him that I'll punch him if that cut he got in the fight against that Bronx kid gets infected, so he better take care of himself. And tell him to stop callin' me Higgins, I hate that name," Race said, looking frustrated.

The newsie merely looked baffled before nodding and jogging away from the stables as the cheering in the stands reached their fever pitch. A horse had just won, and it was that beautiful palomino. Time to pick up his winnings.

* * *

**Three**

It was the middle of the night when a racket began at the front door of the boarding house. It woke up all of the boys and the landlady. The plump, harsh old woman waddled from her room, past the bunk room, and down the creaking stairs. They heard her undo the padlock and heard the old door creak open. Everyone hushed and strained their ears to hear the three voices downstairs.

"It's too late to sleep here. Go away!" The landlady snapped.

"Please, ma'am, we don't need to stay here. We just need to talk to Higgins. It's important!" A small voice begged.

"Just holler up for 'im. I'm beggin' ya! Spot'll kill us if Race doesn't find out right now," a deeper voice pleaded.

There was a small pause before the landlady apparently waved the two boys past. Two boys' heavy footfalls pounded up the wooden steps and into the bunk room, where they halted in the center. One boy had a mop of curly orange hair, and the other had a birthmark covering his right cheek.

"Which one of you lot is Higgins? C'mon, speak up!" The red-head demanded.

"Hey! First, you interrupt our sleep. Then, you come in here asking questions. Go the fuck away!" One of the boys in a bottom bunk growled.

"Spot Conlon sent us with a urgent message for some kid named Higgins." The kid with the birthmark said.

"'m Higgins," Racetrack announced blearily, still half asleep.

"Spot says that your mom was found dead a couple hours ago. He'd only just heard about it," the red-head announced.

Racetrack hadn't ever really been fond of his family. His father was abusive and worked to death in a factory. His mother never had time for him, because she had to work so much. It was like he didn't have parents, really. Spot had lived in the apartment next to Race's since he was born. Spot's father had died in a fire and his mother in childbirth. They had run away together and became newsies together in Brooklyn. Being an eight-year-old newsie was great, because he could play the sad little orphan boy play a million times.

But now, his mother, whom he had loved, was dead. Spot must have been keeping an eye out for her. Numbly, Race climbed off the top bunk and started pulling his clothes on and together. Once he was ready, he ordered, "Take me to Spot."

* * *

**Four**

Race had just come back from Midtown, and was exhausted from evading the cops and the guys from the refuge. He was slumped against the brick wall, his body curled into itself on the fire escape. The rest of the boys were inside, sleeping after their long days of asking for help with their strike.

Smoke wafted from the cigar that was jammed between Racetrack's teeth. His body felt like an unopened bottle of shaken champagne; at least that's what Race imagined champagne was like, after seeing the winners at the track open bottles. He was wired with adrenaline, but exhaustion was havoc on his bones.

A pebble flew up from the alley, hitting the wall next to Race. It startled the boy out of his daze and he scrambled to the edge of the fire escape to look down into the alley. A girl was standing there in newsie garb, her clothes so billowy that you could barely see her feminine frame, and her face so smudged with dirt that you could overlook the long eyelashes and pouty lips. Her long hair was tucked up in her hat so it hid her gender even more. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking Race up and down.

"You Higgins?" She asked, her voice raspy and purposefully deep.

"Call me Race, but yeah, I'm Higgins. What do you want?" Racetrack answered.

"Spot sent me to give you a note," She said, pulling a meticulously folded piece of paper out of her vest and deftly climbed the fire escape to push the note into his hand.

"Oh, uh, thanks," Race mumbled, pocketing the note so he could read it when she wasn't staring at him so intently.

"Heard you used to be Brooklyn," she said.

"Yeah, left for a quiet life."

"You wanted quiet and you joined a fucking strike?" She asked, looking bewildered.

"It just sorta happened," he said as he shrugged.

"Are you and Spot friends?"

"Yeah, guess so."

"Why didn't you come and ask 'im for help with your strike then?"

"'Cause it'd be easier to say no to Jack than me. I didn't wanna press him into anything."

Her face burst into a grin before she said, "I like you Race. I better go though, don't want Spot thinkin' I'm doin' somethin' inappropriate with his friend." She winked and hopped off the fire escape, landing gracefully at the bottom. The girl gave him a short wave before trotting back to the street.

Once she was gone, Race opened up the note and read it over twice. It was short and scribbled, but legible.

_Thanks for not coming today. If you get hurt in the strike I will kick your ass. Remember you're mine, you don't get to get hurt._

Race smiled and slipped the paper into his pocket, deciding to keep it close as a good luck charm.

* * *

**Five**

In the middle of the celebrations of the newspaper article, Race was basking in the victorious glow. The girl from before somehow managed to walk into the bar, seat herself in the wooden chair next to him without garnering any attention, and kick her feet up on the table. She beamed at him, her teeth flashing briefly in the dim room.

"Hey Race, saw you in the papes this mornin'," She said, waggling her eyebrows.

"I expect everyone saw me in the papes this mornin'," he responded.

"Spot saw you too, he told me to give you another note," the girl said, pulling off her hat and taking a folded scrap out of the gray newsboy hat. Race snatched the piece out of her hand and read it quickly. Once read, he smiled warmly at the familiar sloppy scrawl.

The girl giggled and elbowed him, "You two really are friends. Your face, Race."

He blushed and crushed the paper in his hand, shoving it into his pocket. "Spot's crazy, makin' you run notes to me. If he wanted to talk to me so bad, he should be the one runnin'."

"You write him a note that says that and I'll take it to him. I wanna see his face when he sees that," she said, her face making the slyest expression Race had ever seen.

Racetrack grabbed a piece of paper that one of the other boys had left around and quickly wrote out a note telling Spot exactly that: that he better be the one to come visiting next time. He folded it up and handed it over to the girl. She saluted before sneaking out of the bar, her had squashed low on her head to hide any femininity from the boys that she didn't know.

Race smiled and fingered the note that was crumpled in his pocket, thinking of the boy who'd written to him. The note said that Race would probably get a ton of girls chasing him because of how good he'd looked. But that Race should turn them all down because _he was already taken and someone was already warming his bed_. Spot had mentioned in the past how Racetrack had belonged to him, but this was the first time that he'd alluded to how Spot belonged to Race.

* * *

**+One**

The party was winding down, but most of the boys were still celebrating the deal with Pulitzer. Jack was inside, taking every opportunity to kiss Katherine senseless. Specs and Romeo were trying to look like they weren't making eyes at each other across the room. Les and David had been allowed to stay the night, and the younger brother was curled up in some kid's bed, but no one cared because Les was tiny.

Racetrack Higgins, on the other hand, was leaning out one of the windows. Smoke wafted up from his cigar as he blew smoke rings up into the night sky. His eyes drifted in the direction of Brooklyn, and his heart ached. Spot had come and helped when it counted, but he hadn't been able to make time to see Race in all of the confusion. The newsies from the other boroughs had gone home right after Jack cut the deal so they could rejoice on their own turf.

A small, smooth pebble soared up from the alley and pegged Race right in the forehead. The gambler glared down at whoever threw it, and found himself looking at Spot. The Brooklyn newsie was fiddling with his slingshot, obviously not used to coming to call. A brilliant smile spread over Race's face, which eased the tension out of Spot's shoulders and made him smirk cockily up at Racetrack.

He beckoned him to come down, so Race gave the party inside one last glance before tumbling out of the window gracelessly and scrambling down the fire escape. Spot grabbed Race by the wrists and stood in front of him, staring down at their hands as they swayed quietly in the dark.

"I found us a place we could stay the night without people knowing," Spot said, looking a bit nervous.

"All night?" Race asked, looking Spot in the eyes. Usually, they'd hang around someplace, make out for a while, or fuck, and then they'd leave before midnight. What Spot was suggesting was much more intimate and meant a lot when they had to hide their relationship from everyone they knew.

"All night. It's not a fancy hotel or nothin', but no one's gonna bother us, or even see us for a night."

"But what about Brooklyn?" Race questioned anxiously. He wanted to make sure that Spot had thought through everything and this perfect scenario wouldn't be yanked away at the last moment.

"Brooklyn can live one night without me. I've missed you," Spot said, looking past Race and toward the street. This was big. Spot picked Race over Brooklyn, and he was blushing, even though he'd never admit it.

A smile graced the gambler's lips as he said, "Then what are you waiting for? Aren't you gonna take me there?"

Spot smirked, throwing an arm around Race's shoulders like they were old friends instead of lovers. The Brooklyn boss led him down a few dark streets and hooked a few sharp turns, before finally walking up some brick steps and opening a door to an apartment building. Race stepped in first, allowing Spot to follow him inside. Up a floor and down a short hallway, Spot opened a door with a key and ushered the other boy inside.

"What is this place?" Race asked, looking around the small apartment and glancing out the window briefly. He could see the track from there, so this apartment was technically on Brooklyn territory.

"I just started renting. It's cheap, and since it's Brooklyn, I get a discount."

"The landowner afraid of you?" Race chuckled.

Spot smiled, "A little bit."

"But really, you have an apartment all by yourself? On this side of the bridge?"

"Figured that there's one or two things over here that I'd wanna see a little more," Spot said, giving Race a glance before flopping back on the bed.

Race straddled Spot's waist and grinned crookedly at him. "Oh really? And you'd walk back over the bridge every day just to see the stuff over here more?"

"Course I would. I'll just say that this place was the best I could find for how cheap it was, and then I could see that somethin' almost every day," Conlon said, one hand cupping Race's cheek and the other rested on the other boy's hip.

"Mmm, really? Almost every day?" Race asked, his eyes wide and happy as he leaned down to kiss Spot.

When the kiss was broken, Spot said coyly, "More, if you wanted to sleep here too."

Race's jaw dropped. "Spot Conlon, are you askin' me to move in with you?"

"If you'd rather sleep at the boarding house, I get it. You are Manhattan now, and this is my territory, after all..." Spot started to look a little nervous, prefering to look at Race's chest than his eyes.

"I'll still work with Manhattan, but I think I'd prefer to live here."

"Good," Spot said, making eye contact again and beaming. His reckless smile sent an excited shiver down Racetrack's spine.

"What'll your boys think of you roomin' with a newsie who's not Brooklyn?" Race asked.

"If they know what's good for 'em, they'll deal with it on their own time. Plus, practically everybody in Brooklyn knows we're close as brothers." Spot rolled his eyes, because they were different and so much more than brothers.

"Then I guess I really am moving in with you, Spot," Racetrack said, kissing the boy under him. Everything was going to be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> My URL is loser-angel.tumblr.com


End file.
